


A Dark Cold Day

by stepantrofimovic



Series: Fidelis et Fortis [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014), d'Artagnan Romances (Three Musketeers Series) - All Media Types
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Established Relationship, Grief/Mourning, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-13
Updated: 2016-07-13
Packaged: 2018-07-23 18:39:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7475499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stepantrofimovic/pseuds/stepantrofimovic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It starts with rumors – people talking, palace gossip. Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing new except their topic – latest news at Court is, the Cardinal is ill. The Cardinal is dying.<br/>Except, of course, it doesn't start like that. For Captain Treville, it starts with the drops of blood staining Armand's sheets in the morning. It starts with pain so harsh and unrelenting that even a lover's gentle touch does nothing to ease it."</p><p>The last days of Cardinal Richelieu, as seen through the eyes of his lover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Dark Cold Day

**Author's Note:**

> I have to thank [fuxfell](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fuxfell/pseuds/fuxfell) for introducing me to this BBC series, and for reawakening my muse for _Musketeers_ fanfiction in the process. I started writing fanfiction in my head -- long before I knew there was a word for it -- because of Dumas' books, so this is a bit of a stroll down memory lane for me.
> 
>  **Warning:** apart from the obvious character death, keep in mind that Richelieu died of tuberculosis (more or less) after a very painful agony. There's nothing too graphic in this, but it does mention some symptoms. Feel free to message me (either via the comments or [on Tumblr](http://stepantrofimovic.tumblr.com/ask)) if you need more details.

What instruments we have agree  
The day of his death was a dark cold day.

[W.H. Auden, _In Memory of W.B. Yeats_ ]

 

It starts with rumors – people talking, palace gossip. Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing new except their topic – latest news at Court is, the Cardinal is ill. The Cardinal is dying.

Except, of course, it doesn't start like that. For Captain Treville, it starts with the drops of blood staining Armand's sheets in the morning. It starts with pain so harsh and unrelenting that even a lover's gentle touch does nothing to ease it.

And yet, somehow it's not real until it comes up in everyday conversation. Until Aramis mentions it, casually, while the four inseparables are awaiting orders in the Captain's office.

“Rumor has it that the Cardinal is dying.”

“I've heard,” Treville answers, and his voice sounds hollow to his own ears. He doesn't miss the glance that Athos shoots him from across the room – nor does he miss the way the Musketeer's gaze gravitates towards D'Artagnan immediately after that, or the brief crease of concern on his brow.

They don't discuss the topic further. The office of the Captain of the King's Musketeers is hardly the appropriate place for palace gossip.

***

That night, Treville shuts himself in that same office. He sits at his desk, staring at a sheet of blank paper for hours without bringing himself to pick up the quill.

He knows he can't write, of course. It would be careless. If there's one thing a life like his tends to teach a man, it's the value of caution.

He knows just as well that the Cardinal won't call on him. Richelieu has not allowed himself to be careless once in his whole life.

When he finally closes his eyes, a few hours before dawn, Treville tries not to ask himself how long this will take. How many days he will have to go on knowing that his lover is dying, still alive but dying, and that he's not going to see him again.

***

Athos' first words the next morning are, “Are you all right?”

Treville briefly wonders to himself whether he called the younger Musketeer for a private meeting just because he wanted him to ask that exact question. At least, he thinks, Athos didn't feel the need to dance around the topic.

Now that the question has been asked, however, Treville finds himself at a loss. In all these years, there has never been a place for this, for any discussion of his – relationship with the Cardinal. He bids his time by glancing down at Athos' hands, the left one curled around the hilt of his sword, the right one just as elegantly resting at his hip. They are a gentleman's hands, without doubt, despite the barely-visible ridges of calluses born of years of fighting practice.

As Treville stares at them, he is hit with the sudden image of those same hands, strong and refined as they look, gripping hard at D'Artagnan's thighs. Of Athos, the night before, making love to his own young paramour with a desperation that he couldn't explain to D'Artagnan himself. He pictures D'Artagnan murmuring _I'm right here_ to his distressed lover, and wondering where this sudden fear of loss on Athos’ part comes from.

Treville pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to chase away the sudden onset of nausea. “I'm fine, Athos. Thank you.”

***

The summons comes around midday, in the person of a young and harried-looking valet. For a few moments, Treville can do nothing but stare at Richelieu's seal, noticing the way the galero’s profile looks barely smudged where an unsteady hand slipped.

Inside, when he finally brings himself to break the seal, is a single line in a handwriting he doesn't recognize, Richelieu's illness having evidently prevented him from writing even those few words. _Come as soon as viable._

As he walks across Paris as briskly as he can without giving the impression that he is running (he is, but there's no need to be careless), he’s still prompted by force of habit to check that he isn't being followed, that no one is paying undue attention to the Captain of the Musketeers slipping into the Cardinal's apartments through a secondary entrance. Paradoxically, even that pretense of routine helps.

***

He can't say if it's the smell that hits him first, or the sight of Richelieu propped up against the cushions, his complexion whiter than the sheets. Even from beside the door, he can discern the minute, darker stains of blood and other bodily fluids marring the linen.

And yet, his condition notwithstanding, it takes no more than a few seconds for the Cardinal to notice Treville's presence. He smiles when he sees him, and for a moment his eyes shine as they always do every time Treville enters his rooms.

“You sent for me,” the Captain says. The underlying hint of reproachful concern, albeit unspoken, is clearly understood by worth of years of familiarity.

“I am dying,” Richelieu answers calmly. “Allow me to be slightly less concerned about secrecy than usual.”

His biting tone makes such a sharp contrast against his appearance that for a brief moment the meaning of his words almost escapes Treville. Then the underlying vulnerability hits him. The sensation is physical, his breath being knocked out of him by the full import of what Richelieu has just said. He closes his eyes against it.

“You seem upset, _monsieur_. Does my bluntness offend you?” In the Cardinal's voice, Treville recognizes the same sharpness he's heard during hundreds of their arguments. It's the only thing that prompts him to answer.

“Pardon me.” He has to work around the lump in his throat to speak, and even then, his voice comes out brittle. “It's seeing you in this condition that upsets me.”

The room falls silent for a few minutes. Richelieu stares down at the quilts, absentmindedly picking at a thread with his long fingers. Treville, for his part, watches him, unable to tear his gaze away.

“Will you come closer?” the Cardinal finally asks. “If it doesn't bother you too much.”

It sounds more like honest concern than a challenge. Treville has already crossed the room in two strides.

“I must apologize,” Richelieu continues, eyes still downcast. “My – situation makes me hardly amenable to civil conversation.”

“There is no need to apologize,” Treville says, the inadequacy of their whole conversation hitting him harder as the minutes pass.

There's another moment of silence, before a bout of coughing takes hold of Richelieu. As the spasms subside, Treville can't help but listen to the way his lover’s breath wheezes in his throat, each gasp turning into a painful moan. Drops of fresh blood glisten on the sheets.

When Richelieu, still unable to speak, motions for him to come even closer to the bed, Treville lets himself fall to his knees on the floor instead. He reaches for the Cardinal's hand, gripping it convulsively in his.

“I'm sorry,” he murmurs, bringing Richelieu's fingers to rest against his forehead, then his lips, dropping fervent kisses on them. He can taste the salt from his own tears on Richelieu’s hand.

Weakly, Richelieu moves to bring his hand closer to his body, guiding Treville's head until it rests on his chest. His breath is still rattling painfully, but at least the moans have subsided.

“I'm afraid,” he says. “Jean, I'm afraid.”

Hearing his Christian name spoken in such a small voice, almost that of a child, makes Treville's stomach knot even more painfully than before. “I'm here,” he tries to say, but this time his voice fails him mid-word.

Even without looking, he can feel Richelieu shift under him. What was probably supposed to be a chuckle comes out of his chest sounding more like a horrible rasping noise. “I wonder what the people would say if they knew that their Cardinal is afraid of dying.”

Albeit with some effort, Treville manages to force a smile through the tears. This is a topic they have debated in the past, and although it feels very different now, he can recognize and appreciate his lover's attempt to bring him back to familiar territory.

“Should I assume, _monsieur_ , that you are concerned about the safety of your immortal soul?” he teases, weakly.

Again, the way Richelieu's hum reverberates and rattles through his chest is a painful reminder of the situation. “You know, my friend,” he says, “at this point, I wonder if I even have an immortal soul to be concerned about any more.”

These are the last words Treville ever hears from him. A few minutes later, the Captain of the King's Musketeers slips quietly out of the room, the Cardinal having fallen asleep.

***

Armand-Jean Du Plessis, Cardinal-Duke De Richelieu, finally passes away three days later. When the news reaches the Musketeers' headquarters, Treville's only reaction is a wry smile and a quick “Better get down to brushing your dress uniforms for the funeral, gentlemen.” He retreats into his office without meeting Athos' gaze.

The funeral is a predictably long and tiresome affair. The presence of the Musketeers, standing side by side with the Red Guards, is expected, and if anyone on either side was waiting for some sort of scuffle to break out, they're instead met with nothing but stone-faced, respectful solemnity from Captain Treville and his men. Then, again, there was hardly any doubt that the Musketeers considered Richelieu a worthy opponent and a valid adviser to the King.

As for Louis himself, he looks sufficiently distraught for no one to suggest that he had a hand in the Cardinal's death. Then, again, Richelieu's illness was common knowledge for a while, and the focus of the rumor-spreaders has already shifted to his possible heirs for the role of Prime Minister. Names of clergymen and laymen are cropping up, and the mood at Court is one simmering undercurrent of ambition.

Given the circumstances, it's hardly surprising that no one is paying attention to the behavior of a certain Captain of the Musketeers. Even the King barely remarks on the fact that Treville isn't answering the few questions His Majesty asks him during the ceremony, Athos stepping in in his stead every time the silence becomes too noticeable.

 _He would have enjoyed this_ , Treville thinks, from time to time. Most of his attention, however, is focused on putting one foot before the other when he's required to move, and staying upright every time the procession stops. For the entire length of the ceremony, he finds himself unable to tear his gaze away from the casket.

“I cannot believe he's gone,” the King says, voice shaky from unshed tears, and for the first and only time in his career Treville seriously considers the crime of _lèse majesté_.

***

He gets back to headquarters as soon as the ceremony is over. His limbs feel heavy, like he's been running or riding on for hours, instead of standing at parade rest. When he tries to untie his boots, he finds that his hands are shaking so much that he can't even grasp the laces.

He rests his forehead on his knees and breathes deeply until the tremors subside. Then he picks up a pen and starts working on his monthly reports.

 _The month has barely started, my friend_ , says Armand's voice in his ear, its tone wryly amused as usual. He chases it away, shaking his head vehemently.

***

It’s late in the evening when Athos finally comes into his office. Treville vaguely remembers lighting a candle when the sun went down – he can still see what he’s writing, at least, even though there’s no sunlight left. He might also have sent away a few people who came asking for him during the day. He can’t remember.

The room is chilly, he realizes all of a sudden. He glances at the embers of a small fire burning in the fireplace. He doesn’t remember lighting it either.

“You have to eat,” Athos says, putting a bowl of stew on the table. His tone brooks no argument. Still, the urge to fight back, like a petulant child, is there.

“Come on,” Athos insists. Treville knows that the younger Musketeer will have no patience for his reluctance, no matter how much respect he harbors for his Captain, or how sympathetic to his plight he is. He picks up the spoon.

He is barely two spoonfuls in when his hands resume their uncontrollable shaking. The stew is rich and warm and he can feel it in his mouth and nostrils and stomach – and suddenly it’s just too much.

He drops the spoon and pushes the bowl away with a jerk of his wrist. Some of the dense, sticky gravy splashes over the rim, staining his papers like droplets of blood on clean linen.

He can’t stop his hands – his whole body – from shaking.

It takes him a while to become aware of Athos’ hand on his shoulder. The Musketeer is squeezing gently but firmly, that point of contact the only wordless show of support from him to his Captain.

Treville sucks in a breath and focuses on the feeling of Athos’ hand. Bit by bit, the tremors subside.

“Look at me,” he whispers, turning his face away from the candlelight in a fruitless attempt to hide the tears in his eyes. “Spilling stew all over official papers.” He lets his voice crack as he murmurs, “He would laugh at me.”

Athos just squeezes his shoulder tighter, rubbing his thumb lightly over his neck. Neither of them says a word until Treville is ready to move.

That night, the Captain pretends that he isn’t crying himself to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> I can't get over the fact that Richelieu's name was Armand-Jean and Treville's (or Troisville's, if we want to be historically accurate) was Jean-Armand.
> 
> You're welcome to [come visit me on Tumblr](http://stepantrofimovic.tumblr.com/) any time and talk about Treville (or Athos, or Aramis, or D'Artagnan). I have also opened up [prompts](http://stepantrofimovic.tumblr.com/prompts) there for a variety of fandoms ( _The Musketeers_ and Dumas' canon included), if you want. As usual, I have yet to catch up with the whole series (I'm two episodes from finishing season 2), so please be careful about spoilers.


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